The youth brushed his hand across his eyes impatiently. "He always croaks. He is never hopeful." He approached the couch and knelt by it, his face in the shadow still.
The painter lay tranquil, watching the poplars. "Why grieve? An exile has not so many joys that he need fear to lose them, Francesco."
The younger man made no reply. He was adjusting the pillows. He slipped a fresh one beneath the long white hair. The locks strayed in a dull silvery glimmer over it.
"Ah, that is good," murmured the old man. "Your hand is like a woman's. I have not known many women," he said, after a pause.... "But I have not been lonely. Friends are faithful"—he pressed the youth's warm hand. "His Majesty?"—the voice ended with a question.
"No, master. But there is yet time. He often comes at sunset. See how bright it grows."
The painter turned his head. He looked long. "Tell us what the wise physician said, Francesco. Will it be soon?"
"Nay, master, I know not. He said if you have any wishes——"
"Ah, yes." He lay musing, his eyes looking across the room. "There will be few bequests. My pictures—they are mine no longer. Should a painter barter the sons and daughters of his soul?... Gold cannot buy.... They are mine.... Four thousand shining gold pieces Francis put into my hand. He took away the Lisa. He would not be refused. But I followed. I could not live without her. When a man is old, Francesco, his hand trembles. He must see something he has done, something perfect...." He lay looking long at the portrait. "And yet it is not finished.... There was to be the child." He smiled dreamily. "Poor Bambino." His eyes rested again on the portrait.... He smiled back upon it. "Yes, you will live," he said softly. "Francis will have you. You scorned him. But he was generous. He gave you back to me. You will be his—his and his children's. I have no child——At least.... Ah, well—Francis will have you. Leda and Pomona will pass. The Dominican picture ... all but gone. The hand of time has rested on my work. Crumbling—fading—nothing finished. I planned so much. Life runs, Francesco, while one sits and thinks. Nothing finished. My manuscripts—do with them what you will. I could not even write like other men—this poor left hand." He lifted the filmy lace ruffle falling across his hand. He smiled ironically at the costly folds, as they fluttered from his fingers. "A man is poor who has few wants. Then I have not been poor. But there is nothing left. It will be an empty name."
Silence fell between them.
"There is in Florence a lady. You must seek for her, Francesco. She is rich and beautiful. She did me once a kindness. I should like her—this ring—" He slipped it from his finger—a heavy stone, deep green, with translucent lights. "It was my father's crest. He gave it to my mother—not his wife—a woman—faithful. She put it on my finger when she died—a peasant woman. Tell the lady when you give it her ... she has a son.... Tell her...." The voice fell hushed.